broken sunlight

paint my world in a million shades of blue (but i'll always see yours)

She always remembered Mello first. Beautiful arrogant Mello with his hot blue eyes and golden hair. She might have loved him once upon a time. Even with her photographic memory- capable of remembering every detail of a moment- only caught Mello in the most ideal of times, half smirk and smooth china skin, a picture perfect object itching to be painted. She caught the shadows under his eyes and the green flecks in his irises and her fingers would reach for her pencil, which was always in her pocket. But there was nothing to be drawn on and Linda knew she couldn't do Mello justice with a mere pencil- a portrait needed an entire color spectrum just to make the hair seem real, and Mello would need more. Linda saw the world through an artist's eyes, analyzing colors and shading and perspective. A piece of artwork is really made of all illusions- the illusion of depth, the illusion of emotion, and Linda saw the world as a painting. It was frighteningly similar how much easier it was to paint with your sight like that.

But Mello- Mello was not a mere painting. He was sunlight shining in your eyes and ice you fell on when skating, he was all pieced together carefully like a collage. Mello was different.

Linda held a strong belief that whenever you saw the last leaf on a tree fall, something was going to happen. Something big. She never told anyone this because in a house of geniuses, no one was going to take something as silly and irrational like that seriously, but Linda was a romantic person. She believed in fate and destiny and signs that nature gave you. Silly things, but she did anyways.

That day, the sky was waxy gray and yellow and Linda had been staring out the window, sketching the tree just within her view. Its branches were bare and stretched like gruesome fingers out towards the sky, save for one brittle leaf shaking in the wind. Break had just ended and she was supposed to be learning some math concept but her eyes could never stay on the board and understand it. She usually took out her sketch pad and drew, and the teacher never seemed to notice. Linda was a hopeless case, she knew, she couldn't do math and she couldn't do strategy and she couldn't program computers or whatever other children here did. Linda was only sixth because of her memory; she was first and foremost an artist and never L. She accepted that a long time ago. So she sketched during class and nobody cared.

A gust of wind blew the shaking leaf away, if she had blinked she would have missed it completely, and Linda's heart beat faster because she was a dreamer and a wisher and not practical. Well, at least she had some evidence- the last time she had seen this happen was the day they announced L would speak with the children and answer questions. That was something big.

Ten minutes later a figure dressed in black ran across the football field, lugging a large bag on his back and with a hood covering his face. Linda knew who it was- it was Mello- years and years of studying the figures of everyone in Wammy's made sure she would never forget anyone's figure, and Mello's was particularly special, tall, thin and delicate doll shoulders. The late autumn weather was frigidly cold here and Linda saw the wispy white clouds of his breath puffing out. She wondered where he was going. Was he running away? Why in the world would he do that? Mello was jealous of Near, she knew, and he had some problems over that but it didn't seem like something he would do just because of that. Mello was hotheaded and emotional but he saw sense, and he knew running away would solve nothing. He was a genius, after all. He was number two.

While she pondered this, his head turned towards his right and his eyes met Linda, face twisted in a grimace. There must have been a questioning look on her face because he narrowed his eyes and turned away, running faster and faster than before. He pushed open the iron wrought gates and Linda could imagine the sound, the loud clang of finality. Linda craned her neck and tracked his figure all the way until he disappeared, his startling black figure bright against the bland colorless background.

"Linda, what in the world are you looking at?" the teacher snapped. Linda turned and saw the math teacher with her narrow eyeglasses and sharp nose.

"Nothing, ma'am," she replied quickly. The teacher huffed and stomped to the front of the classroom once more.

"Now, find a partner!" she exclaimed. There was a frenzied period of children running across the classroom and people calling to people and, although she wasn't quite sure what the partner was for, Linda slipped away towards the door, where Near always sat without fail.

Linda never understood why she tried so hard to get Near to pay attention to her. Maybe it was the way his lips would curl up in a smile like a cat's. She often imagined what it would be like if she could build a bridge between Near and Mello, make them agree and to get Mello to see Near wasn't so bad after all. It was all a hopeless fantasy because Mello only talked to Linda once in a while, and Near wouldn't even hold a conversation with her most of the time, and she knew that she wasn't much of a peacemaker anyways. Even so, she hated how Mello would glare at Near with his hot blue eyes and how he would ignore Near's barely-there attempts to make a somewhat-friendship, and how Near would just look at him with his black eyes and then go back to whatever he was doing.

She found it unnerving how some things that she would do, seemingly normal things, all happened to relate back to Mello.

Linda sat down in the empty seat next to Near and whispered his name. He looked up from his paper.

"Near, can I ask you something important?"

His fingers twisted a lock of white hair. "Yes. What is it?"

"Where's Mello? Did he run away?" she blurted. Near looked at her in mild surprise, not expecting the question.. "Is that what you were staring at?" he asked. She nodded in reply. "I figured you would know because…I heard Roger call you and him into his office and I thought that…it had something to do with that."

Near shifted on his seat, fingers still playing with his hair. "L is dead," he said quietly. Linda took an inward breath- L, dead? The greatest detective in the world dead, just like that? She knew that all people had to die, and she knew L- in all his mystery and - would too, but it had always been something in the far-off future, when she was twenty or thirty or even forty, not now, not today. Linda tried to imagine L but all she could see was a faceless man lying in a casket, arms crossed on his chest.

"He's-"

Near cut her off. "I do not think that everyone in this room should be aware of that fact."

Linda lowered her voice, but it was still slightly desperate, like the world was suddenly turning the wrong way and everything else was too. "L chose you, didn't he?" she hissed. "That's why Mello left. He couldn't stand being second for the rest of his life, could he, so he left. Right, Near?"

He shook his head. "No. L did not choose a successor and Roger suggested we work together, which Mello disagreed to."

Linda did not say anything. She wasn't quite what to say. In one moment L was dead, Mello was gone and she probably wouldn't ever see him again, and she had no idea what she was going to do now with those facts heavy on her heart. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss, she thinks.

"I am sure you will only tell this to those who need to know," Near said. Linda nodded, not sure what he meant. Who was she to tell?

She forgot about Matt. Matt who was quiet like Near and smiled more and his smiles were crooked and real. He came up to her before dinner, goggles pushed up into his red-brown hair and slight frown on his face.

"Hey, Linda. Have you seen Mello anywhere?" he asked.

"You mean…he didn't say goodbye?" Linda said before she could stop herself.

Matt scratched his head absently. "Well, no. Why would he?"

"Matt," she said seriously. He looked at her. "L is dead, and he didn't choose a successor, and-"

She didn't have to say anymore. His face flashed with confusion, anger, and most of all, a pure sadness that was there for only a blink. Linda would always remember his eyes then-blue and dark, soft and sad, a kind of sad Linda would never know. She wondered if he was regretting every day he had spent inside playing video games instead of playing outside with Mello, one of those quiet days with just her and him and Near, where Linda would stay inside and sketch and watch them.

They were fascinating creatures. Sometimes she had to remind herself they were still human.

"Whatever," Matt said, and turned around and ran.

At dinner Mello's absence had already been noticed by the majority of the children and there were rumors surrounding it- from suddenly contracting a chronic disease to being put in jail for one of his pranks gone wrong. Linda felt like a detached observer, watching little petty birds picking at the ground in hope of a worm. There was cruel delight in some of the faces, happy that Mello, troublesome, odd, and slightly insane Mello, was finally gone, some looked worried, and one or two girls were whispering and near tears. There were only three people who stayed quiet; Linda, who was nodding and "hm"ing to her friends' wild theories, Near, eating his food in a corner like he always did, and Matt- his food untouched and head on the wall, goggles covering his empty eyes.

She tried to hate Mello for leaving them without a warning, without a goodbye, but somehow she could only hope he was going to be okay.

Five years later she was a renowned portrait painter and there were two men sitting in front of her, possessing a horrible air of seriousness.

She was Linda Ginsberg now and everyone, celebrities, government officials, regular everyday people, said that her paintings were "something special; it's the way their eyes look." Day after day she saw faces heavy with powder and mascara, pulling their glossed lips in a forced smile, faces with high noses and squinty eyes, and they all began to look the same to her. Linda found it ridiculous how everyone thought that beauty was accomplished by that one look everyone had; she had seen real beauty and it was as fragile as butterfly wings.

But people kept coming and sometimes they were nice and sometimes they were snotty and her fingertips never lose the paint flecks. They became seas of blue, forests of green, fires of red. Her walls lined with different faces every day, staring at her.

Linda Ginsberg was happy and successful, but Linda felt hollow.

She tried not to dredge up the dusty useless memories of Wammy's; it was useless, she told herself, and it would always bring unwanted things. Linda had to move on now. But somehow, it always found her. The old brick building with the giant windows snuck its way into her sketchpad and it stood ominous, reminding her of her past. Reminding her of L. Reminding her of Near and Matt.

Reminding her about Mello.

She had had two boyfriends since she left and they were nice, she had to admit. The first one had wavy chestnut hair and dimples that he used on everyone. He brought her roses even though she didn't like them and laughed when she told him a story about a boy who ran away from her orphanage. He lasted three months before he said that "it just won't work between us. I feel you're dedicated to your work and I just can't compete with that."

He was half right. Linda would never really love him, because there was someone else. Someone else who was always half there on her mind. She felt emptiness, but no sadness, no anger, no emotion that you were supposed to feel when you broke up with someone.

The second one had black hair and thick black glasses that reminded her of goggles. He was sweet and wore striped shirts. Linda told him after three months to find someone else.

She just couldn't forget. Sometimes she wanted to cry because she couldn't forget and she had no way of knowing if they were dead or not. So when the static filled stilted voice on the phone told her they had to talk about Mero and Nia Linda rushed out the meet them.

And here she was. Across from two Japanese men, the first with a forever creased brow named Akio and a younger man called Matsu. They had spent the past five, ten minutes talking about Mello and Near, outlining in choppy English what they were doing wrong and what they trouble they were in. Linda could just picture them dead, broken lifeless bodies clearer with every word they said.

She thinks afterward that it wasn't their desperate, concerned words that convinced her, it was her own imagination and the ache inside her that missed them so badly.

So when they ask her to draw to draw their profiles- for their own good, please- Linda agreed.

As she took out her sketchbook and pencils she felt the urge to look in a mirror. Her fingers traced over her jaw- her face had lost the chubby cuteness of her childhood and took on a more refined look, her nose had gotten taller, so many little changes that made her look different than she used to. Maybe Mello and Near would have changed like this too, so they no longer resembled what she remembered of them.

This made her feel sad, somehow.

Later Near called her and told her not to give away Near or Mello's faces because they were working on the Kira case- you do know about Kira, don't you?- -of course, Near- and their faces had to be kept private. As well as other reasons, he added.

Linda's breath caught in her throat and she could feel tears. What in the world had she done? Why had she let herself be fooled, it was because- it was because- she just didn't know what to do, and her stupidity, her utter stupidity was what had brought her down.

"Near- I- I," she couldn't say it, she couldn't tell Near that she had unknowingly betrayed her trust- "I gave them your pictures."

"Excuse me?"

"I gave the Japanese investigators your portraits," she choked out.

There was a long, terrifyingly cold silence on the other end, and Linda could only hear static buzzing. "I see," Near finally said. Linda could see him on a cold tiled floor, colored in a monochrome of blues and grays and brightly colored fake smiling robots beside him. She never got the chance to paint him either.

"I'm so sorry."

"It's already done, Linda." His voice was icy and stiff. "Goodbye."

It was a cloudy day and the sky was gray, but not in a bland colorless way it sometimes was. The gray was soft to the eye and resembled smoke, and the little cracks in the clouds showed blue behind them.

Linda, with her hair in a carefully arranged bun and wearing a light pink dress, stood in front of a vast collection of painting as a smiling interviewer stood facing her, holding out a microphone. The interviewer's name was Cheryl and she was known for talking with celebrities and famous people in the safe environment of a TV studio, sitting in soft couches. But since Linda was such a lovely artist, a prodigy, Cheryl had gotten her way to interview her in her newest exhibit. The people who had come to see Linda's works nodded at the fine detail and emotion captured with the paintbrush, and they pointed and laughed whenever they saw a portrait of someone they knew, usually a star, but sometimes they would say "oh, that's the lady who…" and would go off on some nostalgic memory.

Cheryl had asked so many questions as the audience had stared, eager to learn more about this enigmatic young artist who rarely gave exhibits and never did interviews; childhood (in an orphanage, Linda said, and the audience sighed in sympathy), inspiration (people, she answered, and life), love life (she had simply smiled at this, causing the audience to "oooh" over the thought of her having a secret relationship, even though Linda hadn't said a word about anything like that), and so on. She began to find the questions quite tedious and began to focus on the little smear of eyeliner on Cheryl's face and the way the room seemed to be extremely warm.

"Now, I know that everyone is very excited to see your paintings," Cheryl said, "but I have one last question. Is that all right?" Linda nodded.

"Out of all your works, which one do you treasure most?" Cheryl asked. The audience leaned in a little closer, trying to guess. Was it the one of the girl holding a ruby red pomegranate, or perhaps the one of the woman illuminated by the setting sun? There were so many beautiful ones; the people who came could barely choose a favorite at all.

Linda walked to a painting of three boys, perhaps around thirteen or so. It was a room filled with sunlight and in the left, one crouched boy dressed in white pajamas averted his eyes from the viewer, choosing to stare at the puzzle in front of him. There was a certain determined stillness about him that made him seem much older than his soft smooth cheeks looked. In the right was a slim figure with a shock of red hair holding a device of some sort, orange tinted goggles partially obscuring his eyes. In the center and closet to the mirror was a boy caught between a smile and a scowl, features delicate like a doll's but fierce as well. His hair was chopped and shorter on one side, and it seemed to glitter in the light and his eyes were hauntingly beautiful and piercing, a piece of fiery blue glass. It was certainly a nice picture, but they didn't see what was so special about them in particular. Cheryl, in a slightly puzzled tone, asked about it.

Linda took a deep breath. Mello and Matt were dead and Near was more aloof than before. Somehow, she couldn't think of them as dead, how could someone with so much energy and ambition and life simply be gone? She still couldn't quite paint them, couldn't quite catch the way the sun made Mello's hair glow, the pallid white of Near's skin, the softness of Matt's eyes. Her techniques of illusion and tricking the eyes no longer worked on them- they never did- and she had to paint it with all emotion alone. Mello most of all- her possible first love and he was sunlight. She thought of Mello huffing around Wammy's and Matt shrugging and Near smiling his cat smile, and she-

She couldn't possibly explain.

She couldn't.

Linda Ginsberg said, "it's just special." Linda cried for everything she had lost.